


Give a Man a Mask

by Lue4028



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, double identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lue4028/pseuds/Lue4028
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-reichenbach, in the darkest period of John's struggles to cope, John meets a girl who bears an unnatural resemblance to his former friend. He finally manages to ask her on a date (chapter 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When John finally manages his way into the over-populated pub and out of the nippy, frostbitten weather, he is so overwhelmed by the amount of people congesting the bar and table booths by the televisions that he is unable to locate his date. Eventually he finds her amongst the sea of faces in a strategically impossible-to-find location at the periphery of the bar setting. Her head is angled downward and partially obscured by her hand, which she has set her forehead against.

 

“You are officially the most dodgy person I have ever met,” John tells her in amazement as he sits down and shoves his ice-ladden raincoat onto the adjacent seat.

“I am not dodgy,” she retorts with a vixen glare, miffed, “I just can’t afford to be seen with you.”

“Why not?” John asks, naturally.

 

“You don’t want to know,” she sighs lethargically, casting a glance out the abstractive, thermal-glass block window, distorting the snow and streetlights outside into gibberish with its sculpted, undulating surfaces.

 

“Actually, I think I would,” John maintains straight-forwardly, adjusting his silverware on the table and looking up at her brazenly. Her eyes move to his neither quickly, nor slowly, and betray no emotion. Her hair is raven black, cut short at the base of the neck but devolving into long dangling curls at the fringe. She wears eyeliner and mascara, framing her crystalline, dagger-sharp eyes, but no eye shadow. Foundation that gives her shin a radiant and seamless pallor, but no blush. Chapstick, that give her lips a sheen,  but no lipstick. Each touch makes her look distinctly feminine and beautiful, but only upon close inspection. Her entire get up is remarkably discrete. Despite her hip-length coat being designer, it’s a mute color of black that blends naturally. She hasn’t bothered to remove her gloves or coat, presumably because she isn’t intending to stay long.

 

She takes a swig seemingly in preparation for what she’s about to say. “You are a god-awful date.” The comment is forced, painstakingly so, and it’s blatantly obvious she’s trying anything she can to cut him loose.

 

“Don’t be petty,” John chastises enduringly and tolerantly, like he used to do with a certain unforgivable bastard.

“I mean it,” she says with reproach-fueled earnestness. It’s the sort of tone sore losers use.

“Okay,” John levels diplomatically, “How do you mean?”

“Well. You’re blond. I don’t like blonds,” she replies flippantly, crossing her arms.

“Are you serious? My hair is brown.”

“Is it really? I could have sworn it was blond.”

“Well, it’s not. So unless you have any other complaints-“

“Your eyes. I don’t like blue eyes,” she offers yet another equally arbitrary and ridiculous reason.

 

“Must be a turn-off to look in the mirror then,” John replies understandingly with a set of honest-to-goodness eyes.

The girl looks at him puzzled, blue eyes contracting on him analytically, before blinking with realization. “Oh.”

“Is that all?” John smiles politely but somewhat wearily.

The girl resumes her machinations, trying to come up with an alternative and sufficient reason, which proves to be surprisingly difficult.

 

“You’re… short?” the girl asks uncertainly.

John raises an eyebrow. “Is that a question?”

“God, why is this so hard?” the girl demands, wrestling her fingers into her cropped hair.

John watches in surprise at the sudden reel of frustration, while a series of words appear on his coat and next to his face. _Attractive. Gallant. Brave. Intelligent. Impeccably dressed. Well-off. Strong. Loyal. Lovely._   And _How could any rational person manage to dump a man like this?_

 

Suddenly it hits her and the girl lights up with an epiphany. “Gay! The fact that you had a string of dissatisfied female lovers despite having been able to share a flat with a man for    four consecutive years is strongly indicative of a gay or at least bisexual orientation!” she exclaims triumphantly.

 

“Did you just… deduce me?” John asks, looking shocked.

 

As quickly as she lit up, she shuts down. “Scratch that,” she says sternly, temperamentally, “Scratch everything I just said. Scratch it.”

 

After a moment of silence, John recollects himself and asks, “Is it really so hard for you to come up with something bad about me?”

She gives him a tired glare.

“I’ve a bit of a temper and am generally quite reckless. I have trust issues and PTSD. I’m not gay, I’m just terrible with relationships. You can use any of those if you like,” he sighs in defeat, exasperated but still good-humored.

 

“Oh.. I suppose I could,” she replies off-handedly, “I mean, if I didn’t like all of those things.”

 

John is taken aback, his eyes flashing wide for a second.

“Trust issues?” he contests, his voice full of rhetoric and disbelief.

“Nonsense. You don’t have those.”

“Then PTSD?” John ventures, confused.

“I get the impression you’ve been largely cured of that, haven’t  you?” she glances at him through half-lidded eyes, feeling triumphant apparently. 

“Being terrible at relationships. That’s a strike against me, no matter how you look at it.”

“Hardly. Besides assuring you are likely to remain faithful, it’s charming. And… frankly amusing,” she says with unintentional derision, smirking irrepressibly to herself. John is perfectly bewildered.

“You realize you could just agree with me and be done with this whole predicament you’re in.”

She recoils, aghast then irritated. “Well that would have been extremely helpful to know beforehand!”

“I think I’ve been plenty helpful,” John replies in his defense, “I just handed you a dozen reasons not to date me.”

“Well none of them are holding up, John,” she tells him smartly in clipped tones, “Try something else.”

“When this become my responsibility?” John asks, slightly put-off.

“Since you offered.”

“I did not—“

“You did too.”

John is surprised that he has found a woman who potentially more immature than he is. He sighs dramatically and regroups.

“I don’t want to sabotage this date, okay? I obviously want to have at least a starting chance after all the pains I went through to get you to go out with me—”

 

“John."

 

John sighs. “Why don’t you try the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ thing?”

“Are you implying something?” her eyes narrow with reproof.

“Oh, for Christ’s sakes, you don’t even have to be honest about it. Feel free to lie or embellish. I’ll have no way of knowing.”

“Except now you will.”

“I won’t.”

“You’ll certainly suspect.”

“You’re astounding!” he exclaims in his classic, appalled and slightly embarrassed form of outrage, “I’ve never met anyone so terrible with people—” John stops himself and falls silent. His counterpart falls awkwardly silent as well.

 

She takes a deep breath a says, “I suppose.. that would count, wouldn’t it? As something wrong with me.”

John exhales, watching the polish on the table peel. “No. I’m sorry to break it to you but that doesn’t even count a little,” he replies flatly.

“I don’t understand. That’s a very disagreeable trait,” she states.

“Not to me.”

 

Her expression is perplexed, curious, delving eyebrows betraying confusion.

“Honestly, not only does it not count,” John confesses, “it counts _negative_.”

“Negative? How does it count negative? What, does it make you like me _more_? ” she demands incredulously.

John looks at her miserably.

“This really wasn’t a good idea.”

“No. No it wasn’t,” John admits, sliding his chair back and standing, “I see that now.”

“You’re leaving,” she observes, eyes shifting between him and the chair.

“Yes,” he smiles softly at her, having collected his Folk raincoat on his arm.

“Are you.. are you letting me go?”

“That is what you want, isn’t it?”

She stares at him in surprise, dumbfounded. Those horribly familiar, people-stupid eyes make John feel nostalgic.

“I can take a hint, alright,” he smirks, “Shall we?” He indicates the door.

 

Once they manage to squeeze outside, they pause a moment to bid their good-byes, or attempt to anyway.

“I’m sorry. I just… I can’t. I really can’t,” she tells him hastily.

“I know.”

“John.. I..” she struggles, trying to apologize.

 “It’s really… It’s alright,” he explains, the slight inflection in his voice emphasizing his sincerity, “I’m better for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we don’t have to keep up… pretenses,” John winces almost imperceptibly, giving her a parting glance before he turns around to take his leave. Her eyes widen in alarm.

 

“What?” she gawks, “What pretenses, John?” She panics and chases after him, and turning to face him. John halts as she intercedes him. “What d’you mean, pretenses?”

“I’m just not in a good place for a relationship right now. It’s better I don’t pretend that I am,” John explains, feeling brutally cornered. He really doesn’t feel like having to be honest about _this_.

“Oh god..” she mutters, almost with self-revulsion, instinctively touches his arm, “why did you… why were you so relentless about asking me out then?”

 

He seems more interested with how her hand folds in his than answering her question. He looks up from her hand that he’s holding to her eyes with unseasonal, golden lightness, “Will you.. tell me your name?” John asks, seeming to be at a loss and resorting to this last graceless attempt.

 

But when he asks, it blackens the mood. Agony constricts on her face, and John can literally hear the cogs of her mind grinding to a slow under excruciating pain. John stops pressing her, stops expecting, stops hoping. He drops his eyes and turns swiftly away, proceeding through the snow, toward the tube.

 

“Chloe!” She yells suddenly. John stops in his tracks, blinking with surprise. He turns around slowly, the wind battering at his lapels and collar.

“Chloe K. Lessor,” she repeats, a tinge of some indiscernible emotion playing in her eyes.

“I see,” he says, smiling tenderly, “Goodbye, Ms. Lessor.”


	2. Chapter 2

John stares at the prescription form situated on his desk, index and middle fingers absent-mindedly fiddling with his ballpoint pen, then stands up and walks over to the fax. He scans it in and presses send, but another fax spews back out, angrily demanding his signature on two other things.

“Right,” he mutters to himself and he glosses over the sheet. He returns to his desk, prints and few things out and fills them in, then returns to the fax to send them out. He holds his breath, waiting for the machine to reject more paper, but it rings of pure silence on the other end. He exhales with blissful relief and heads over to the canteen for much desired coffee.

He canters down the stairs and heads into the cafeteria, filling a disposable cup with the generic brew and heading to the queue. A white collar-dressed woman with brown shoulder length hair stands behind him, also with coffee. She fidgets impatiently as the line to the cashier diminishes, checking her phone twice.

“Would you like to go ahead?” John offers once the cashier becomes available.

“Oh, no. You’re on the clock. You go,” she waves him off.

“I’m on my break,” John replies amusedly.

She goes in front of him. “I’m not- I mean, I don’t have to be anywhere,” she stammers, paying for the coffee at the register. John does the same and they walk out together, “I’m just annoyed! My dad doesn’t want to have surgery and it would be much better if he did.”

“Oh that’s alright. I’m sure his doctors will turn him around. We’ve actually gotten quite good at using scare tactics as means of persuasion,” he grins. She smiles at that, refreshingly surprised.

“Do you really do that?” she asks and they exit the cafeteria area and proceed toward the inpatient wing until they hit the elevator.

John stops and considers, “If need be. It’s a last resort but completely fool-proof.”

She is impressed. “What are you, are you—“ she wonders curiously.

“I was a surgeon,” John says, taking note as the elevator opens next to him and a boatload of people exit onto the ground floor, “For now I’m a GP at the clinic.” He turns to face her and the last of the crowd exits out the elevator. “I’m John Watson, by the way,” he offers his hand with a slight smile, preparing to take his leave.

“Amily Miller. Nice to meet you,” she returns the gesture and shakes his hand, “Um, would you like to get dinner or something?”

John would love to get dinner or something.

“What time do you get off your shift?”

 

 

 

John is in high spirits when he approaches their diner of choice and discovers Amily at the street corner, texting on her phone.

“Hello there. How’s your dad?” John holds the door open for her and she looks up from her phone.

“Oh hello. You were right. He caved!” she beams, clearly in better spirits as well.

“I knew he would see things our way,” John replies with a subtle diabolical edge that makes Amily choke on a laugh.

 

 

 

By the time they start eating, John is fully convinced that he has actually gotten through the majority of a date without supernatural forces screwing it up. Amily leaves momentarily to use the restroom in the back, and suddenly Chloe plops down in her seat.

“What are you doing here?” John demands in hushed tones.

“Good evening to you too,” Chloe replies, picking up a menu despite obvious disinterest. Her eyes flash dangerously to something over John’s shoulder, before returning to the varied selection of pasta dishes the diner offers.

“Can we not do this right now? I’m on a _date_.”

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” she utters casually without lifting her eyes, like it’s a given, not a question.

“Seriously. You can yank me around all you want _tomorrow_.”

“No good, I’m afraid. I’m here on a time-sensitive matter,” she looks up and grins at him.

“That’s fine but why does it have to involve me?” John quips as her eyes trail behind him again, to two inconspicuous confidants in the back of the room. Her eyes revert to his when he finishes and the question hangs in the air.

“It doesn’t.”

“To hell it doesn’t.”

“Why are you doing this?” he tries to level with her in exasperation.

“The official reason is no reason,” she informs him blithely.

“Back to square one,” John groans resignedly.

 “Honest, John. Just minding my own business,” she says, entertaining herself with the menu. Her eyes glance up again, narrowing in on the two customers in the back.

John is beginning to dislike the fact that she’s so pretty. The juxtaposition between her looks and the way she acts doesn’t make much sense. Naturally, it throws John for a loop.

“That’s exactly what you’re _not_ doing,” he gripes, “Who do you keep staring at?” He turns around to look over his shoulder, and sees that Amily is just behind him, having returned from the washroom. She approaches Chloe with a look of confusion, but Chloe doesn’t pay her any heed, fixated on the discussion ongoing in the back, perhaps straining to lip-read it. She's leaning forward, with her elbow bent and her fingers placed thoughtfully under her chin, oddly reminiscent of a certain other person who one day was  sitting in a similar arrangement at Angelo's, trying to locate a taxi serial killer . 

“Um… hello,” Amily ventures.

“Excuse me, you are?” Chloe turns on her irritably, like she’s an unnecessary interruption and nuisance.

“uh.. You’re in my seat,” Amily notes. 

“Oh. I’m sorry, seeing the thirty-seven alternative open seats in this restaurant, I wasn’t aware there was a shortage of chair space that would prevent you from taking another,” Chloe replies mercilessly. John sighs, closes his eyes, and rests his forehead against his hands that are pressed together, elbows against the table surface.

“Um…” Amily looks rather perplexed, if not embarrassed, and looks at John questioningly, who is thumping his head against his hands softly and repetitively in silent curses, “Do you know this person, John?”

Chloe smirks at this, her attention redirecting to John. “Oh, I believe he does. Unmistakably,” she says with an air of self-satisfaction, giving him a smoldering look.

John returns her flirtatious gaze with a glare.

“Okay, well,” Amily replies awkwardly, “I don’t mean to interrupt. I was just-”

“Leaving,” Chloe dictates, like it’s her royal right to do so.

John wants to kick her in the shin. Unfortunately that’s not socially acceptable.

“Yes. I guess it might be better if I headed back. Goodbye John,” she excuses herself, grabs her coat, and exits the restaurant.

“Was that your rebound?” Chloe drawls with mild curiosity and slight boredom.

“Um.. she was my date,” John replies with pointed annoyance, “Why do you ask?”

“How the mighty have fallen.”

John’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “You know,” John starts with a pensive pause, “Jealousy, as a color. It suits you. I’ll give you that much.”

“Jealousy?” she barely dignifies that with a laugh, “I’m just being reasonable. We both know you can do better than that.”

“ _That_? Objectifying women now, are we?”

“Apologies. I’m never fully up to date on what’s considered politically correct,” she says, eyes darting to the other table where the two customers are talking.

“So is there… some point to this? Other than making it extremely difficult for me to move on?” John asks curiously.

“Are you mad? Don’t be mad.”

John returns her gaze evenly. “No, not at all.”

“She was an idiot, John. I can’t tolerate idiots,” Chloe starts explanatively. John rolls his eyes. “I know you seem to do better with them, not sure how you manage it, but nevertheless, that’s hardly reason enough to go around dating them,” Chloe sneers in revulsion.

“You think I’m an idiot too, I’m sure,” John replies off-handedly. Chloe looks momentarily surprised but John doesn’t pay any attention, more interested in the salt shaker.

“Yes but you’re the loveable kind,” she replies with a gentle smile, leaning her cheek on her hand.

His tolerance cracks and John bristles, noting that Chloe, not unlike someone else, is extraordinarily talented at getting under his skin. “Are you usually this patronizing?”

“Do you like patronizing?” Chloe returns seamlessly with a gaze of precision, like a nail hit squarely on the head, driving into its target. John feels his mouth go slightly slack and fails to generate a response. Chloe’s eyes follow her two POI’s as they stand and exit the diner. The door clicks closed.

“Well, I’m off. Thanks for letting me crash your date,” Chloe smiles thankfully at him, rising from the table, “I should like to do this again sometime.” She turns, flashing a grin over her shoulder, and takes her leave.

“By all means,” John replies with false courtesy, twirling his fork in a deeply irked fashion between the table and his index.

 

 

 

So John finds himself alone, by the curb, with dusk having fallen and the wind tugging mercilessly at his jacket and hair.

“Stranded in the middle of London without a cab?” a familiar voice asks.

“As it turns out.”

“You might want to try being a bit taller. I’ve heard it helps,” the voice says, signaling over a cab. One somber, black automobile sees this and revs excitedly to life.

 “I thought we said we wouldn’t be seeing anymore of each other.”

“Well that, clearly, isn’t working. So I thought I might compromise,” Chloe says, stepping forward and opening the taxi door.

“And what does this compromise entail exactly?” John asks as she stands by and he files in.

“That remains to be determined,” she replies decidedly, “I will warn you, however, I will drop by occasionally if I’m bored.”

“Drop by?” John turns around, uncertain if he heard her right, one foot in the cab.

“Bye,” Chloe grins, leaning a hand on the top edge car door.

“Oh.. bye,” John says, and Chloe shuts the door.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping you can just HEAR the Sherlock in him or "her" as John prefers. Trying to make it painfully obvious.


End file.
